Snippets of Steele
by RSteele82
Summary: (AU Series) Three short stories - cut scenes, if you will - to move us ahead in the AU Series, from "Steele on the Air," "Steele, Inc" and "Steele Spawning." What exactly have we missed, due to the strips of film snipped out before the production aired? I propose it might go something like this.
1. Part I: Steele Up In The Air

Part I: Steele Up In The Air

Remington flipped off the switch on the boombox stationed on Mildred's desk. Mildred had gone undercover at 14 KROT, the radio station, as a phone in sex therapist, leaving he and Laura to run the offices on their own and it wasn't setting well with him, not well at all.

"I'm going blind, and she's playing Sigmund Freud, PI," he griped.

"Well, you're the one who encouraged her to spread her wings."

"Yes, but not at the expense of the nest, for…" He left the thought incomplete as he stood to pace in irritation behind the chair in which Laura was seated. She was staring at the monitor equally baffled and miffed that she couldn't pry the information from it she was wanting. "I mean, whatever happened to good old Mildred? Sweet, adoring, servile?" he finished, leaning against the back of her chair.

"She found out her boss is a fraud, remember?" she retorted.

The harshness of her words left him doing a doubletake at the back of her head, a displeased look settling on his face. It was the third time on the day that she'd taken a shot at him where Mildred was concerned: earlier when she'd given him sole proprietorship of 'creating a monster'; just a moment before with the 'spread her wings' crack; and now, tossing the blame on his doorstep for being revealed a fraud. He bit down a biting retort of his own, something along the lines of it was she who revealed his past to Mildred, quite without his permission, he might add. Instead, he observed…

"Sometimes the truth can be so . . .unnecessary." That he wasn't joking was lost on her. Swiping the comment aside, she frowned again at the monitor.

"I don't mean to inconvenience you, Mr. Steele, but could we focus on our background check of Doug West?" she suggested, indicating the computer.

He pressed his head next to hers and stared at the computer screen, as she tapped another series of keys for nothing of value to appear, again, and again… and again. Thoroughly bored, he allowed the alabaster skin of her neck, dappled with those delightful sprays of tawny color, to draw his attention. Memories of that skin beneath his lips, the taste of it in his mouth, her enticing sighs, her body shifting restlessly at his ministrations, tramped through his memory. What's a man to do when such temptation is so near? He blazed a trail of whisper soft kisses down her neck, feeling the swift intake of air against his lips.

"People can see," she reminded him breathily, waggling a finger towards the door.

"Mmmm hmmmm," he hummed, then abruptly left her side. Her brows raised when she heard the snick of the lock at the doors, and looked up just in time to see an outstretched hand appear over her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she asked, twirling around in the chair to look from his hand to his face. He presented the hand again, and raised a pair of full brows at her.

"I've made an executive decision," he answered, as she took his hand. Drawing her to her feet, he tugged her towards his office.

"Oh, and just what might that be?" she inquired, amusement dancing on her lips as he shut the door behind them.

"It's time for a coffee break," he answered, sitting down on his couch and pulling her down into his lap. She laughed silently and made a display of looking at coffee and end tables.

"But you've forgotten the coffee, Mr. Steele," she drawled out playfully, while her fingers walked up his tie.

"Seems that I have. I supposed we'll have to settle for something far more…" He swept her hair over a shoulder and cupped her neck, drawing her lips to his for a scant moment, "…invigorating." His lips covered hers again, only for two hands to plant themselves against his shoulders so she could pry herself back.

"You want to neck?" she clarified.

"Wonderful way to get the heart pumping, blood rushing, synapses firing on—"

"To leave a detective or two frustrated," she cut in. He waggled his brows at her.

"I'm willing to risk it if you are." He bent his head again, only to find a set of fingers on his lips and a pair of amber eyes regarding him.

"We're not having sex in the office, in the middle of the business day," she warned. Pursing his lips, he gave her a solemn nod.

"I give you my word, my hands will not journey, even for an instant, beneath your shoulders," he vowed. She eyed him skeptically. "Unless, of course, you're worried _you'll_ be unable to control yourself," he taunted, a smirk lifting his lips. Eyes narrowing and giving him a tight-lipped smile, she grabbed his shirt and yanked him to her, her lips connecting with his.

At first, they teased one another, a nip here, a caress there, but then on mutual hums, the kiss turned serious. His hand burrowed in her hair, to press her lips more firmly against his when she touched a tip of her tongue against his lips, then explored his mouth, his taste, slowly, leisurely. He laughed deep in his throat when her hand glided down a shoulder, across his chest and nimble fingers began releasing buttons on his shirt. Bracing her face with his hands, he broke the kiss, his lips hovering mere millimeters from hers.

"Above the shoulders, Miss Holt," he reminded her, then settled his mouth over hers, only for her to back away this time.

"I never made any such promise, Mr. Steele," she reminded breathily. He was chuckling when his lips claimed hers, and this time took ownership of the kiss. He fed on her lips and mouth, shifting his mouth this way, then that, relishing her taste, the feel of her tongue playing with his without reserve. His blood hummed, his body felt electrified, much as it had that day in the winery, the first time she'd ever permitted… encouraged… him to kiss her with unrestrained passion. She felt, as much as heard, the growl rumble deep within in his chest, when her hand darted between the opening she'd created in his shirt, and caressed his chest. Ending the kiss, his lips left sparks in their wake as the traveled along her jaw then down her neck.

"Ah, Laura, two can play that game," he warned gruffly next to her ear, latching his mouth over the skin below it, suckling softly, lathing the tender skin with his tongue then blowing upon the wetness, smiling when he felt the shiver course through her slim frame. He was prepared to fly the flag of the victor when she hummed audibly at the feel of his lips moving down the column of her neck, towards the sensitive patch of skin at its base, almost realizing too late her hand had slipped from his shirt and was streaking in a most southerly direction.

Her laugher carried through the air when she found herself unceremoniously tossed onto her back on the couch, and the perpetrator quickly placing a half-room's distance between them as he buttoned his shirt.

"Is something wrong?" Smoothing down his shirt and tucking it in, he gave her a queer look.

"Not at all. Hearts pumping…" _Madly_ , he silently added to himself "Blood's flowing…" _Hard and fast in a definitely southern trajectory_ "Synapses firing on all cylinders…" _And then some_. He stretched his back and thumped his chest with the palms of both hands. "Yes, yes. Since it seems the stated goal has been met…" _And exceeded_ "it's time to get back to the grind, don't you think?" Leaning up on her elbows, she smirked at him. _Thought you'd have the upper hand, didn't you, big guy?_ she silently mused.

"You? Suggesting we stop…" she waved her hand at where they were sitting, "… and _work_?" The very idea sent laughter trickling through the air again.

"Merely wanting us to avoid a potentially awkward moment, Laura," he retorted, feigning affront. _Two more seconds, I'd have been prepared to sweep everything off my desk, lie you on it and have my way with you, only for you to skitter away. Aye, very awkward._ Her smile grew.

"Oh?" she lifted her brows at him, her brown eyes dancing with merriment. "And what 'potentially awkward moment' is that?"

"Mildred returning from the station and finding we were unable to convince that bucket of bolts to give up the information we've been seeking, of course," he answered smoothly. Suppressing another laugh, she took on a serious pose as she stood up and smoothed her skirt. _Nice try, Mr. Steele. Not buying it._

"Well, we can't have _that_ ," she agreed and after patting down her hair, walked towards the door. When she stood next to him, she paused and frowned, pretending something was amiss.

"What is it?" Remington asked quickly. Laura pursed her lips as though in thought and stepped towards him. Reaching for his tie she pretended to adjust it, then drawing it tight pulled him down until his ear was even with her lips.

"We both know, Mr. Steele, you don't give a fig about those reports," she challenged, bemused. He nearly noosed himself when her small hand ran over his bottom and gave it a squeeze, making him jerk upwards when a jolt of pure desire shot through him. Releasing his tie, she left the room, her laughter following in her wake.

"You're a wicked woman, Miss Holt," he called after her, slipping a finger between tie and neck, loosening it so he could freely breathe.

"Be careful what you wish for…" she chortled back.

He could only chuckle as he returned to the reception area and unlocked the door. This. Laura playful. Daring. It was precisely the part of her he'd dreamed for years that she might one day let him see, enjoy. He wouldn't have her any other way.

Still, a fool he wasn't, and took great care to perch on the desk well away from those speedy little hands. Of course, his observant partner didn't miss a thing, and he met her smug snicker with the raise of a single brow. She'd thrown the gauntlet in this seductive little game, and he would be only too happy to pick it up and accept the challenge. To the victor would go the spoils, and he had every intention of being the victor.

* * *

Laura's fingers combed through Remington's damp hair, his head laying on her stomach as they both sought to catch their breaths after a vigorous round of lovemaking. Where once that aftermath meant preparing for a graceful exit lest the current evening's paramour mistakenly attribute more to the evening than a pleasant romp, he treasured this time with Laura. Whether it was his head resting upon her stomach, or she splayed across him, her unconscious gentle touches and soft caresses spoke volumes. In these moments, he knew she understood this, between them, was about far more than a roll in the hay, that all those fears, questions which consumed her when left too long with her thoughts, were, for now at least, absent. And, because in these times she believed in them, he could allow his own worries and fears to take a hiatus, and let down the invisible wall he oft erected to protect himself against her taking him to his knees by pushing him away in an effort to protect herself, as she was prone to doing. He was fully vulnerable to her at these times, and those touches, those caresses said she knew he was precisely that.

In truth, he'd been waiting anxiously for her to slam to door on them since she'd returned early from her mother's. There were times, in fact, he was left darn well fidgeting, nibbling at a thumbnail, tucking his hands into pant pockets only to remove them again, helplessly regarding her with a nervous smile. That she'd not only come home much earlier than expected, but more specifically had chosen to come straight to him on her arrival, had been an exercise of supreme trust on her part, he knew. She'd chosen to have faith he'd not only want her there, but hadn't doubted she'd find no competition waiting for her in his bed, or walking through his door. It also revealed that this, them, held great importance in her life… that he held enough importance in her life that he'd been missed. Admissions of such caliber, if even only to herself, could well trigger her fears of being consumed by a man, and, if so, from there disaster would follow. In fact, during their brief trip to Vail, on several occasions he'd felt the slightest of withdrawals, as indecision she thought she'd kept well-hidden left her tense, and he'd made it point to draw her near, to vanquish those fears without admitting he knew what was going on in that amazingly complex mind of hers: a hand grasped, fingers tangling; a hand on the small of her back, thumb brushing soothingly; an impulsive hug; or a kiss that left her breathless. Each time those beautiful brown eyes shimmered up at him in the aftermath of such an act, he knew he'd quelled her fears, had assured her this, they, were very real and in his eyes, very right. But that they'd existed at all, made it impossible to force the words he'd hoped to finally say, for no other reason than fear she'd run and they'd always be between them.

Laura's thoughts followed much the same vein as the man who lay with his head pillowed on her stomach while his fingers absently tangled and untangled with the fingers of her free hand. It was becoming increasingly difficult to believe it was only a roll in the hay he was after, as there were too many signs, at moments like these, which said otherwise: his soft, nearly reverent sigh, when their bodies first merged as one; the emotions that played through his eyes as his body moved within hers; his hands clutching at her, pressing his body to hers when he found his release; and, above all, in the long minutes after when he seemed to need to keep her close as he found his footing again. His every movement, touch, look conveyed the words she longed to hear from him, but never crossed his lips… making her wonder if she was only imagining the rest when left alone to her thoughts.

Vail had only made things more… complicated… in a manner of speaking. They'd attended the Crockett New Year's Eve bash together, then had departed for the airport as the sunrise has painted dazzling colors across the sky. As he'd predicted, they'd spent five days in nearl perfect harmony with one another. Ski trips during which many a bet was made, lost… or won. Long evenings making love before the fireplace, in the hot tub, in the king sized bed… and one truly satisfying encounter in the screening room as _Casablanca_ played out on the screen behind her when she'd straddled him to take him inside. Romantic dinners both at home and in restaurants which offered a panoramic view of Vail valley below. Dancing, lots and lots of dancing. Long walks in the village, and a horse drawn carriage ride when, out from under watchful eyes in LA, those unconscious touches of his had only magnified ten-fold, leaving her body abuzz and making her feel positively cherished by the man whose fingers and hands made certain she stayed near.

It had all served to dazzle her, especially when she'd found themselves opening up and sharing parts of their past with one another, freely and without reservation. She'd told him a good deal about the days she'd dated then lived with Wilson - how she'd changed in an effort to please him, only more often than not to find she couldn't quite hit the mark. She'd even braved admitting the way Wilson would shut her out both emotionally and physically when irritated with her, hoping Remington would understand the parallel to his own behavior when injured or angered. He in turn shared with her the whole of his time with Anna, leaving her stunned and with a new perspective on how his having to watch her flirtation with Beemis, leaving him for Westfield, would have wounded him as deeply as his closing himself off did her.

The combination of how well they'd gotten along and the confidences shared had left her… jumpy and confused when she allowed herself to dwell on it. She was used to a reticent Mr. Steele, not the man who had fully opened himself up to her about a part of his past. She was used to sniping and bickering with her partner, not enjoying days on end of quiet solitude with him. She was used to the man who took little seriously, who was filled with frenetic energy, not the calm, contemplative man who accompanied her. He'd noticed her state of unease, of course, and when he did, would restore her footing somewhat through a gentle touch or with a kiss that left her lightheaded enough that her thoughts packed up and took their leave.

The man on who her thoughts had been focused stirred against her now, grasping the hand he'd been toying with and drawing it to his mouth, so his lips might flutter over her knuckles. Releasing her hand, those same lips blazed a trail from stomach to neck, as he adjusted to stretch the length of his body over hers, taking the bulk of his weight on his arms. A pair of blue eyes twinkled down at her.

"Adoring fan, eh?" he asked with a smile and waggle of his brows. She rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Don't let it go to your head, big guy," she advised on a yawn, while giving him a playful pat against his deliciously bare bum. "I'm sure you'll manage to fall out favor before the week's out." Chuckling, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled until he lay on his back and she tucked herself against his side, splaying an arm and leg across his body.

"Two challenges in as many days, Miss Holt?" he asked, bemused. She blinked heavy eyelids at the comment, then frowned.

" _What_ challenges?" she asked in a voice gone up an octave. Pressing up on an elbow she stared down at him. He automatically lifted her hair out of her face and back over a shoulder.

"Mmmm," he hummed, "First that wonderfully enticing game of one-upmanship in the office, and now, defying me to stay in your good graces for an entire week." Shaking her head at him with a smile, she lay back down against him.

"It would seem to me, Mr. Steele, that accomplishing the first would risk currying disfavor on the second," she pointed out on another yawn.

"Perhaps, perhaps," he agreed. "One might even label it the impossible challenge, and we both know how I feel about those."

* * *

 _ **"After all, I'm a man who enjoys impossible challenges."**_

* * *

She was unable to suppress the small snort of laughter which accompanied the memory.

"Wake me at eleven?" Nodding, he bussed her on the top of the head.

"Of course." His hand stroked the length of her arm, while silence lingered long, before he swallowed hard and dared, "Or you could stay…" She remained quiet for so long, he wondered if he'd missed that she'd dozed off on him. Tilting his head to the side he looked down at her, and found a pair of brown eyes regarding him. Finally, with a long sigh, she broke eye contact, and nuzzled into his shoulder again.

"I can't." The words had been difficult to force past her lips, and she scrunched her eyes closed when she felt him stiffen slightly beneath her.

"Can't or won't," he pressed, tightly.

"We have an agreement," she reminded him, quietly. _No, we have one of your many blasted rules,_ he corrected in his head, lips tightening. _A hell of a thing for a man. Force the issue and she won't return to your bed for Christ only knows how long._ What else was there left to say but…

"Eleven, it is."

A frown creasing her brow, her last thought before she fell asleep was, _I'm sorry…_

 _(TBC)_


	2. Part II: Shanghaied Steele

Part II: Shanghaied Steele

Laura walked down the hallway towards Suite 1157 with a smile on her face and more than a bit of pep in her step. It had been a _wonderful_ weekend, designed by the hand of her Mr. Steele. Dinner at Cardini's on Wilshire, a first-time experience for both but destined to become a favorite given their succulent meal of involtini di melazane al formaggio, followed by risotto with scallops then the main course of rack of lamb garnished with mostarda and rosemary-scented potatoes. After dinner, a showing of Roger Selden's works at the Wilshire Center, which Remington had proclaimed, 'so much slop,' given the paintings and collages had a purposefully asymmetrical bent which suggested controlled chaos was a normal structural schema. A quiet walk along the beach, a chat before the fire accompanied by a chilled Chardonnay had completed the evening. Then on Saturday? A picnic in the park, dinner at Chez Rives, and a night of dancing and mingling at the Policeman's ball. Breakfast in bed Sunday morning, followed by a long, lazy Sunday afternoon where he'd indulged her in an _Atomic Man_ marathon, miraculously limiting his criticisms of her childhood favorite to only a dozen or two scoffing remarks across the six hour span. It had been the perfect weekend, and she'd been loathe to leave him, although leave him she had.

So when she had pushed through the doors of the Agency, the last thing she expected was a skittish Mildred jumping up from the chair at her desk and bustling towards her nervously, clapping her hands against her cheeks and holding them there.

"Oh, Miss Holt, the phone…" she looked towards her desk "… I don't… How did… Oh, _Miss Holt_!" she babbled, ending on a cry of distress. Laura gave their trusted friend and major domo a perplexed look and clasped the older woman's upper arms in her hands.

"Mildred,calm down," she instructed firmly, leading her back to her desk. "Now, take a deep breath and tell me what's going on?"

"It's the Boss," Mildred managed, before scrunching up her face and placing her hands back on her cheeks again. Laura's lips thinned, and she plunked her hands on her hips, temper flaring. _That man!_

"Alright, Mildred, spill," she clipped out. "What's he done now?"

"I don't know how to tell you," she answered, faced crumpling.

"Mildreddddddddddddddd."

"The Boss… a hit-and-run last night a little after midnight…" Laura's heart plummeted to her toes even as her adrenaline kicked in. He must have gone out after she'd left. Why hadn't she just stayed? Why had someone called the Agency, not herself, personally? The idea he'd been alone all this time, even worse, the he hadn't called her himself… Snatching up her purse, she demanded, "Where is he, Mildred? What hospital?"

"The caller… San Diego County coroner… the morgue… The Boss is dead, Miss Holt!"

At Mildred's words, Laura's heart sped up, then she would swear for the rest of the days that she could literally feel the moment it broke in two. She sat down, hard, on the edge of Mildred's desk, fighting to breathe. How was it even possible that he was gone when she could stil see his bright blue eyes, filled with affection, twinkling down at her; could feel his long, slender form stretched atop her petite frame, her fingertips buried in his silken hair. Gone? When she could still taste him on her lips, feel his breath against her neck, could still hear him murmuring her name in her ear. Only nine hours ago, she was still daring to dream and now… Suddenly her world which had toppled sideways righted itself.

"The _San Diego County_ coroner?" Laura clarified, to which Mildred nodded her head frantically. "A _little_ after midnight?" Another nod. "But that's not possible," she insisted. "Mr. Steele and I were… talking… at midnight. He couldn't get to San Diego in under two hours." Mildred looked up at her hopefully. "Mildred, did whoever call leave a number?" The older woman nodded, shuffling through her desk as her own hope was slowly being restored. Handing Laura the message slip, she stood, leaning against hands pressed to desk.

"Do you really think the Boss…"

"Know, Mildred. _I know_ he's fine and will be walking through those doors any minute," she answered, wagging a finger at the door as she stood and walked swiftly towards her office. "Act normal, while I get to the bottom of this."

Mildred didn't answer, but sat down heavily and leaned back in her chair, pressing hand to heart. Those two kids were as precious to her as Bernard, especially the Boss, to whom she was prone to mothering. It was no wonder, then, when he strolled through the door a few minutes later, just as Laura had predicted, and rapped on her desk as he passed, her smile was far wider than normal.

"Morning, morning, morning," he called, as he walked straight back to his office, then swinging open the door, glanced with disappointment at his desk where neither tea nor newspaper awaited his arrival. Shoulders drooping slightly, he muttered to himself about how the Mildred of old would never have neglected him in such a manner. Straightening his shoulders, he resolved he'd have to get his own tea… again… just as Mildred bustled past him with his newspaper and laid it on his desk.

"Have a seat and read your paper, Boss," she directed, a wide smile on her face. "I'll have your tea ready in a jiffy." A smile spread across his face. _Ah, this is more like it. The perfect start of a Monday,_ he thought.

He sat, snapping open the paper then stretching out his long legs and propping feet, crossed at the ankles, on the corner of the desk as Mildred hustled out of the room. Sure enough, she returned in short order, pouring his tea, all the while staring at him with the queerest of looks upon her face. Odd enough, it was, to make him squirm a bit before she departed. Shrugging it off, he returned his attention to his paper. Until, that is, the click of his door opening drew his attention and he watched Mildred and Laura peer at him through the opening, before curiously closing the door again. With a frown, he again opened his paper, only for that door to reopen, and for Laura to wag her finger at him to follow. With a puff of air, he'd tried to figure out how and when he'd miss stepped, but for the life of him came up with nothing.

The matter only became all the more bizarre, as instead of being led into Laura's office where he'd be called upon the floor, he followed Laura and Mildred from the office, then watched as Laura locked the door.

"A case?" he queried.

"I'm not sure," Laura answered slowly, earning a cock of her brow at the back of her head.

And matters became still all the more perplexing when she merged the Rabbit onto I-5 South towards San Diego. A grin lifted his lips, when he considered she'd decided to play hooky for the day, in favor of a romantic jaunt much like he'd attempted for them, under the guise of a case, to San Francisco the year prior. His face fell when he recalled Mildred in the back seat. No, certainly not that, as he and Laura hardly required a 'buffer' any longer.

"Uh, Laura, where are we going?" he finally ventured. To which she'd replied, in that maddening way of hers…

"All in due time, Mr. Steele."

A frown puckered his brow at that. Laura's birthday was in two weeks, perhaps she'd decided to toss a bit of birthday celebration for herself? No, not Laura's style at all, he dismissed. A team bonding exercise? Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his seat and looked out his window, becoming increasingly perturbed when he noted Laura's bemused glance towards him out of the corner of his eye. Deciding he'd had enough of this particular mystery, not to mention her closed mouth, he turned he back towards her, resting the side of his face against the seat and determined a nap was in order.

And was none too pleased when he was elbowed awake to find the Rabbit parked outside of the San Diego County Medical Examiner's building. Not at all what one hopes to find as their destination after a two plus hour road trip, not at all, indeed.

He said as much, too, when the morgue attendant pulled a drawer from the cooler to display the body of a large, black man.

"Call me an optimist, but I would have thought an impulsive jaunt to San Diego would lead to a somewhat more, kind of… lively tourist attraction?"

"Then, you don't recognize this man?" Laura asked. He took a bit of offense at that, as both question and body language suggested he should have some knowledge of the man in front of him, and not in a 'as a detective' but more along the lines of 'as a former thief and conman' sort of way. He leaned over a peered at the man again.

"Should I?"

* * *

The day had gone steadily downhill from there, at least from where Remington stood. He'd been impersonated, suspected, accused, punched, kidnapped, held at gun point, threatened, shot at, had engaged in grand theft auto (add a new crime to the resume he was diligently trying to reduce not expand), was nearly caught red-handed with said stolen vehicle, found a body, dragged a body up a hill (in one of his favorite suits no less), had been impaled by a tree (while being mocked, at that), witnessed another murder, had fled the scene (due to a body in their own car), and now… now? Laura had deigned to inform him they'd be sleeping in his pseudo office.

Normally, he'd shrug it all off: _all par for a day's work_.

But he found himself more than a bit chafed at two of those points, those minor bits that she'd suspected him of being in cahoots with the faux Remington Steele, and that he'd had any part in recreating the Agency for his own gain. Most particularly after they'd just spent a glorious weekend together. He frowned, and added _, not to mention we've been together every day since September, so when precisely was I putting this con together?_ It grated, it did. Them, sharing a partnership throughout the week, their lives on the weekend, and still, her first instinct was to think the worst of him. Nearly two and half years since he'd first posed the question to her in Acapulco and things were still the same.

* * *

 _ **"How long do I have to keep on proving myself to you? I mean, why is it so important what I was? I mean, we've been together for what could be called a season. Doesn't that count for anything?"**_

* * *

Laura eyed him as she forked another substantial helping of the nachos into her mouth. They'd picked up Mexican and brought it back to the 'office' with them. He'd been unusually quiet during the meal, especially for a man who was usually at his most chatty during lunches or dinners in the office. In fact, he'd become increasingly reticent as the day had worn on and she had a distinctly uncomfortable idea of why that was: her. She'd been intentionally secretive about where they were going that morning, as she wanted to observe his genuine reaction to what had brought them to the morgue in San Diego. A test, again. Then, her natural assumption that he was behind the shanghaiing of the Agency's good name, its replication. Her Mr. Steele relied on his instincts, his ability to read people. He'd have divined the first on his own, and, of course, she'd made no secret of the last.

Faith. Trust. He craved both from her: without first being handed proof that she should afford them to him. She _was_ trying, but still regularly failed, unable to fully let go of times past when he'd attempted to put a fast one by her, the memory of those stings of betrayal too strong. But she had three things with which to draw him out of his funk: a bit of humor, a word of praise, and a gentle touch.

"You've been busy, Mr. Steele," she smiled at him. "Murdered and married, all in less than a day. How do you do it?" Leaning down and taking a bite of his enchilada, he looked up at her through his lashes.

"I'd rather buy off the rack than wed into that den of vipers," he rebutted.

"Ah, but think of all those millions. You could buy custom suits, silk ties and Italian shoes every day and be none the poorer for it," she teased. Setting down his fork, he closed the Styrofoam container in front of him and wiped his mouth. Unbeknownst to her, she'd unintentionally insulted him again and he took a long drink of water while he formed a response of the kind she was expecting.

"Dead men don't buy suits, Miss Holt," he retorted, forcing a smile to his face before standing to dispose of his garbage. She scrunched her face at his back, realizing instead of soothing things over, she'd instead insulted him further, having not missed the tic in his jaw before he spoke. Following his lead, she wrapped up her meal and crossed the room to dispose of her waste.

"I suspect we've found the culprit behind the Remington Steele Agency, San Diego division," she offered.

"Yes, it does rather smack of one of George's get rich schemes," he agreed, sitting down in 'his' chair and loosening his tie, while propping his feet on the edge of the desk.

"I was hoping after the Courtney Doll debacle, he'd try to change, pursue an honest... a legitimate... endeavor," she admitted, walking around his desk, propping her bottom against the side of his desk directly in front of him.

"It's not easy to change the entirety of your life, Laura," he pointed out as he unbuttoned his collar. "To change your habits, how you think, to envision a completely different future than you'd once imagined for yourself." She said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for being given the opening she'd been hoping for. She reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, while giving him a warm smile.

"You have," she reminded.

"And it's taken three and a half bloody difficult years, yet still it seems I've a ways to go," he countered.

"I don't think that's true," she disagreed quietly, releasing his hand to lay a palm against his cheek. "You barely resemble the man that walked into my life three years ago, under the surface at least. You're an instinctive, talented detective. A great partner, who I can count on to have my back. A faithful friend." His visage softened the longer she spoke, the warmth returning to his eyes and the adored lopsided smile lifting his lips.

"Is that so?" She nodded slowly.

"It is." She leaned in to brush her lips against his, the contact lighting her nerve endings on fire. Their eyes caught and held. Lifting a hand, he braced two fingers against the back of her neck, and drew her lips back to his. As the kiss deepened, his hands reached for her hips and drew her, willingly, down into his lap. He traced the fullness of her lips with the tip of his tongue, requesting entry, then groaned when her lips departed. "It occurs to me, that we're in your office, Mr. Steele." His brows drew together as he wondered what she was getting at, until her lips blazed a slow, sweet trail along his jaw.

"In appearance, at least," he agreed, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, as she drew the lobe of his ear into her mouth and nibbled softly. His hand roamed down her back, over her bottom, then back upwards again.

"Precisely my point," she murmured against his ear, before turning her attention to the spot below it which drove him mad when she did… _that._ She suckled the skin gently, teased it with the tip of her tongue, then blew on the wetness, sending goosebumps cascading over his skin. "Which means…" her lips continued to journey downwards, as her fingers, released a button… then two of his shirt… and eased aside his collar "…we wouldn't be breaking my rule." She latched her mouth over his collarbone, drawing the skin firmly into her mouth. His hand clutched at her bottom, as an appreciative, quiet moan rumbled deep in his throat.

"Are you suggesting we fulfill a fantasy…"

"Or two…"

"Of mine…" he continued.

"Of ours," she corrected, burying her hands in his hair, and claiming his lips for her own. She teased, tasted, nibbled, then slipped her tongue into his welcoming mouth, stroking his with hers. When her lips parted from his, she added, "Yours first," before moving forward to cover his mouth with hers again.

Her shrieking laugh filled the room, when Remington launched to his feet, she held securely in his arms, then bent down to lay her on 'his desk.' He didn't hesitate when her open arms beckoned him to join her, his lips smothering a new laugh when in his earnestness to join her, he sent the phone tumbling to the floor.

* * *

Remington and Laura fulfilled those fantasies, on his desk, then in his chair, before they put the shower in 'his' office to good use. While a blanket and pillow were found the alcove cabinet, exactly as it was in his office back in LA, unfortunately the spare changes of clothing they each kept at the office were not to be found. Pulling on his briefs as Laura slipped back the delicious little teddy she was prone to wearing beneath her clothes, he snatched her pants from her hands and returned them to the back of the chair where they'd been hung. As rare as it was for them to spend a night together during the week, he had no desire for there to be layers of clothes between them.

"What are you doing?" she demanded to know, reaching for her pants again, only to find them tugged away a second time.

"Neither Remington Steele nor his partner can show up wrinkled, Laura. It just wouldn't do." She rolled her eyes at him, but allowed him to take her hand and pull her towards the couch anyway. Waiting until he stretched out on his side, she joined him, tucking her backside against his front as he wrapped the blanket around them.

"What if someone shows up?" she queried.

"All the doors are locked," he assured her.

"As though a locked door has ever stopped either one of us," she drawled.

"You worry too much," he admonished lightly, bussing her on top of her head, and drawing a calming hand down her arm. "If you insist on putting that mind of yours to work tonight, instead of worrying of something unlikely to happen, focus on a concern we actually do have at hand." Her brows raised.

"And what is that, other than the case?" He smiled above her, knowing she'd be unable not to take the bait.

"Our Ms. Krebs." Her brows furrowed.

"She does seem to be in it up to her neck, whatever _it_ is, doesn't she?" He tilted his head to the side then back up again.

"To have some knowledge of it, at least, given her feigning illness at the medical examiners, then showing up with Mulch at the bus depot."

"Knowing where to find Mulch in the first place," Laura added nodding her head slowly. She captured his hand in hers, weaving their fingers together, untangling them, then repeating the action again. "I just can't believe Mildred, of all people… _Why?_ " She drew out the last, a bit of hurt and betrayal reflected in the word.

"Mildred's not been… the same… since you revealed… my secret… to her," he hypothesized, surprised when he felt the sudden tension in her slight frame.

"Are you blaming _me_ for telling her?" she demanded to know. Pulling his hand from hers, he drew it down her arm, soothing her.

"Not blaming, _per se_ ," he cajoled, "And _that's_ a conversation better left to another day. But Mildred has been… different… One might say even a bit out of control, since." Another frown graced her face at that.

"As far as _I know_ , if Mildred's involved in this, it's the first time she's attempted to franchise the Agency without our knowledge," she argued.

"What of the rest of it, hmmmm?" Her frustration grew.

"What 'rest of it'?" He gave her arm a brisk rub, before settling in to stroke again.

"That bit last week at the office, ordering us into my office, treating us as though we were the subordinates; blowing our covers, not to mention putting your pretty little neck at risk in doing so, during the Platinum Air fiasco; pitting your authority against my own in the Kramer case," he ticked off.

"It would seem to me, that 'bit last week,' as you termed it, was given rise by _you_ agreeing she could focus more on the investigative side… without consulting me, I might add… wouldn't you?"

"An agreement reached only because she had my back to the wall, and bloody well knew it," he countered. The bitterness in his voice that he failed to disguise caught her attention fully, and her eyes widened in surprise. "Leaving us high-and-dry… after her own egregious actions with that reporter… then challenging both my authority and abilities, before laying out her stipulations to return."

"What, specifically, do you mean: 'challenging both your authority and abilities?'" she pressed. He shook his head. He hadn't consciously intended to reveal the last, it had merely slipped out in his annoyance over Laura's comment about the origins of Mildred's recent promotion. When he held his silence, she wriggled around on the narrow confines of the couch to face him and dragged her hand through his hair, a gesture he was powerless against, "Remington?" He rolled to his back, and closing his eyes, scrubbing at his face with his hand, leaving her to press closer to him, lest she wished to fall off the couch.

"She simply made it clear, in her eyes, she was far more fit for my job than I, and made it known, she believed I lacked the authority to negotiate her return without getting approval for the terms from you, first." Her lips pinched tight at the answer.

" _She said that_?" she asked, appalled.

"Mmmmm," he hummed in answer.

"Is that the only time she's made such… comments?" He looked down at her, before closing his eyes and swiping at his face again. "What else?" He sighed deep and long.

"Only that she hopes I'm worth all the trouble I put you through." He opened his eyes and gave her a wry smile. "She didn't seem all that convinced that I am." She easily saw past the smile to the injury in his eyes. She lay a hand against his cheek.

"I know you are, that's all that matters." She propped herself on an elbow to bestow a kiss on him, then lay back down at his side. "Why haven't you said anything?"

"I suppose I hoped she'd recall, in time, that I had shared with her the truth of who I am… or perhaps, more accurately, who I wasn't… very early on in our association."

* * *

" _ **Mildred, you are looking at one of the biggest frauds you've ever seen. I'm not Remington Steele. Not the Remington Steele**_ _ **you**_ _ **think I am. Oh, I know, I appear to be the super sleuth, with all the answers, dapper, debonair, worldly. But it's all an act. One conceived by Miss Holt that I work very hard to maintain in order to support this agency's image.**_ _ **She's**_ _ **the real detective. If I'm anything more than a figurehead, I owe it to her. I've made more mistakes since I've been with Laura than I care to remember, but I'm still here, Mildred."**_

* * *

She wasn't so easily assuaged.

"It seems I'll be having a chat with our Ms. Krebs very, _very_ soon," she mulled aloud. He tapped her on her hip, and she rolled to her side, so he might spoon around her again.

"Determined to ride to my rescue again, eh?" An amused smile lifted his lips and he pressed the side of his head to hers. "We've bigger concerns on our hands right now, don't you think? First, nailing a killer, then securing the sanctity of the Agency." Grasping his hand, she tangled their fingers together, then drew joined hands up to rest between her breasts.

"You're right."

"Get some sleep, Miss Holt. If you don't wake early we haven't a prayer of rousing, then we will be, quite literally, caught with our drawers down." He chuckled quietly next to her ear, knowing she was blushing based by the way she shifted ever so slightly next to him. She squeezed her eyes tight, trying not to the think of the scenario he'd just proposed.

"Good night, Mr. Steele," she said at last.

"Good night, Miss Holt," he returned, then chuckled again, knowing she'd fall to sleep with visions of precisely that prancing through her mind.


	3. Part III - Steele Interrupted

Part III: Steele Interrupted

By Remington's estimation, thus far it had been the perfect start to what he'd planned as the perfect weekend. Tonight, dinner made by his own hand: A spinach salad followed by Dijon and focaccia crusted Rack of Lamb, herbed potatoes and steamed broccoli, then for desert a raspberry tart dribbled with white and dark chocolate. Tomorrow morning, breakfast in bed for his lady fair, a round of golf at the club afterwards at which time he'd present her with tickets to the circus for that afternoon. To close out the evening and weekend, he'd leased a sailboat. A dinner catered by Chez Rives would await them there. A dessert of succulent strawberries, freshly whipped cream, and a bottle of chilled Dom. They'd dance then make love beneath the stars before retiring to the stateroom below for a night's sleep... or, if she preferred, on the bow, wrapped up together in a down comforter to ward off the evening chill. In the morning, breakfast once more made by him, an afternoon sail home, then when they arrived at the loft? Dozens of roses perched on nearly every flat surface, dinner catered by L'Ornate, and at last her gift.

But to start this evening: a cheese and cracker plate laid out on the coffee table and la piece de resistance: a 1969 champagne from the Krug Collection. The bottle had been a gift from a friend back in '73. A thank you, if you will, for help rendered in a time of need. The priceless bottle of bubbly was worth ten times a decent bottle of Dom, and he'd kept it carefully tucked away for nearly thirteen years, waiting until a worthy occasion presented itself.

Was there any occasion more worthy than the thirtieth birthday of the woman who simultaneously soothed his heart and made it sing?

Even so, as he now held the bottle in his hand, he stroked it with a bit of regret, as it was rather like saying goodbye to an old, dear friend.

Laura swung a crossed leg impatiently. It had been a long day. She'd arrived at the office much earlier than normal to assure her desk would be cleared by end of day, given the weekend lay ahead. The cup of yogurt she'd scarfed down before leaving the loft that morning hadn't been nearly enough to tide her over, especially in light of having worked through lunch. She'd gone home to shower, change and dress for this evening knowing her Mr. Steele would have something planned. Her hair had turned out far, far… poofier… than she'd prefer, but trying to rectify it would have meant being late for dinner. She was tired, grumpy and the very idea she was turning thirty – thirty! – in a few days had her bordering on positively cross. Now, here she sat, starving, while he paid homage to a bottle of champagne. Unable to wait another second to get food on her stomach, she reached for a cracker, only to find it being taken from her hand and tossed back on the table as she'd prepared to sink her teeth into it.

"Uh, uh, uh, careful, Laura," he scolded lightly. "Clouds the palate." She leveled a frustrated… and confused, look upon him.

"What is so _special_ about this bottle of champagne?" she asked, impatiently. He chuckled softly and stroked the bottle as though it were a lover, earning an impatient roll of her eyes, heavenward.

"Ah, this was given to me by a dear friend in Cypress, 1973." He paused, a ponderous look on his face, then continued, "Or was it '74? Ah, well, at any rate, I had to leave rather unexpectedly because the Cypriots decided to stage this coup. However, this precious bottle of champagne here survived, and was later recovered by-" She'd had enough.

"Mr. Steele," Laura told him, while tapping the top of the bottle with her hand, "pop the cork." Disappointed by her lack of interest in the wine's origin, he never the less nodded his head in agreement. He reached for the cork, as a knock sounded at the door. He turned to look at it, as she again reached for a cracker.

"Return of the Cypriots?" she asked, drolly, earning a glare at her lack of appreciation for not attempting to understand the meaning behind his decision to use this particular bottle of wine.

"Who is it?" he called, not even rising.

"Help me! Please! Let me in," came the simpering voice of a man. "Someone's trying to kill me!"

There was no need to ask Laura if he truly needed to answer that door, he already knew the answer: the champagne would have to wait.

* * *

The man was a menace. It was only one of the words that could be used to describe Bing Perrett. Obnoxious. Whiny. Irritating. Spoiled. Insufferable. Malignant. A pox. There were a few more apt descriptions. Unfortunately for Remington, listing the man's shortcomings did nothing, whatsoever, to improve his mood. Neither did racking up the damages to his flat to date: broken window, shattered end table, collapsed bed. The dinner he'd so carefully prepared ruined and tossed in the refuse bin. And his champers! Thirteen years of coveting that first sip but forcing himself to wait until the time was right – all for naught.

Grunting, he flipped again to his back on the couch where he lay, crossing his arms and frowning up at the ceiling. If he were honest with himself, he admitted, his current state of dysphoria was far less about the damages visited upon his belongings and far more about his plans for Laura's birthday laying in tatters about his feet. He'd spent near on a month devising a plan, discarding one after another as not befitting such a milestone as her thirtieth birthday, and finally settling on what he'd felt was an apt tribute. It had been his fervent hope that the care and attention with which he'd planned the weekend of festivities, all in salute to her, would reflect how much he cared for her, how often he thought of her, how very much the relationship they were nurturing meant to him. Right now, had all gone according to plan, she'd be snugly held in his arms as they danced, lights dimmed, fire burning low, and soft music serenading them.

She'd played him, he knew. He'd been fully prepared to refuse the bellicose Bing housing for the evening... had tried to, in fact. But the tilt of her head, the earnest brown eyes, the soft voice, the gentle hand fingering first his tie, then the lapel of his jacket... he'd been powerless to refuse her, as well she knew he'd be. A no win situation that had been. Refusing meant disappointing her, which was certainly not the way to salvage his carefully laid plans. Agreeing meant keeping her happy, and the evening still a loss.

He turned onto his side, and let out a frustrated breath. Even now, Laura was likely standing before her refrigerator, having settled for a couple of questionable pieces of cheese slapped between two slices of iffy bread for her dinner. The woman never ate worth a damn unless a decent meal was set before her, after all. After, she'd change into some perfectly frumpy night wear then cuddle up with a case file instead of him, none the wiser to the evening he'd designed with her in mind. It was enough to make a man positively nutters.

Remington was correct, at least for the most part. She had, indeed, made herself that cheese sandwich after cutting away a few suspect parts with a shrug. Her mother had grown up during the Depression and disposing of a few spotty white and/or blue parts of the cheese would do her no harm... after all her mother had survived just fine. She hadn't donned one of her chaste nightgowns, instead wrapping herself in one of his pajama shirts, as she was accustomed to on weekend nights, but she had taken files to bed with her, as predicted. They'd failed, however, to keep her attention, her mind wandering often to what might have been. Remington had been dressed to perfection. Between that and the obviously treasured bottle of champagne, it was clear he'd orchestrated a carefully planned evening for them.

Lamb, she lamented. She'd smelled lamb cooking. What else had he whipped up in that kitchen of his? She'd bet her last dollar that something on the evening had involved chocolate. A mousse? Pots de crème? A cheesecake or tart dribbled in chocolate? Dark chocolate or white? He used food as a tool for seduction, as much as he did for sustenance. Yes, there had been chocolate involved.

No Remington.

No seduction.

No chocolate.

Damn it.

* * *

" _He's_ disappointed in _us_?!" Laura drew out each word in irritation. " _He_ fired _us_?! That... that..." At a loss for words, she crossed her arms and scowled fiercely.

"One man wrecking crew? Toddler in long pants? Pestiferous parasite?" Remington offered up from where he sat next to her in the back of the limo, equally vexed. She gave a sharp nod of agreement.

"Then he has the _unmitigated gall_ to blame _us_ for the property _he_ destroyed?" she continued to vent. "I'm of a mind to take him to court if he doesn't pay up!"

"Better yet, call 'Daddy'," he suggested, saying the last word with disdain.

"There was chocolate, wasn't there?" she asked a bit dolefully. He did a double take before her question clicked.

"Merely one of many delights that awaited you," he answered, crossing his arms now as well.

"What else?" she demanded to know.

"Spinach salad followed by Dijon and focaccia crusted Rack of Lamb. The herbed potatoes you enjoy. Raspberry tart drizzled with both white and dark chocolate. A bit a dancing. Breakfast in bed this morning, a round of golf at the club." He reached into his jacket and pulled out two tickets, flicking them in front of her nose. Taking them in hand, her temper heated further.

"The circus?!" she asked, dismayed. "You got us tickets for the circus?"

"I did. Followed by a sail this evening... a night, perhaps morning of romance," he added.

"I'll kill him," she declared vehemently. "Your plans. Your apartment." She saw the lamp on her desk crashing to the floor, shattering, again. "That was a _Correa lamp_."

"The lamp shade's replaceable, Laura,"" he countered, sulking. "A precious bottle of champagne's irreplaceable."

"The man's a spoiled, overgrown _brat_. He should be _spanked,"_ she bit out.

"Easier said than done," he clipped, then glanced down in annoyance at the car phone when it rang. With no little irritation, he picked up the handset. "Steele here." He yanked the phone away from his ear as gunshot retorted loudly in the background.

"They're trying to kill me!" Perret's voice came over the line.

"Where are you, Bing?" Remington asked, while Laura shot him a sour look upon hearing the man's name.

"The warehouse! Hurry!" Another couple of rounds sounded in the background. Glancing at the phone, he hung up... indifferent, almost, to come to the man's aid. "They're trying to kill him," he informed Laura. She was equally unimpressed.

"That's because it's easier than spanking him," she quipped, looking away from him, but then turning her head back to look at him. They both knew what they had to do, whether they wished to or not.

"Perret's warehouse, Fred," he ordered the driver, all the while knowing any hope of getting some time alone with his delightful partner that evening had disappeared as soon as the words were spoken.

* * *

Remington had been right, of course. He'd called first thing the next morning, cancelling flowers and dinner, so at least that expense would be spared, neither trusting Bing Perret to cover the expenses they'd incurred nor believing they'd wrap up the case in time to enjoy the evening. Still, on Sunday night and the case over, for only a moment they'd had a glimmer of hope they might salvage at least a small sliver of the evening for themselves. But that, of course, had ended when Mildred arrived with Ivan Strelnikov, the KGB agent who'd been giving chase to the rogue Commiczar of Caviar. By the time the man had departed for the airport and Mildred had taken her leave, Laura's witching hour was near. He'd been tempted to try to sway her into staying the night, since the whole weekend had gone afoul, but with a mental sigh, acknowledged it would be fruitless to do so. So, they'd said goodnight, sharing a fairly chaste kiss at his front door.

On Monday morning, Laura sailed into his office, and as though there were nothing unusual about it, announced:

"Frances and Donald are expecting us at six tomorrow evening for my..." she couldn't stop the grimace that followed, "... birthday dinner. Dress is casual, so you might want to bring a change of clothes to the office so we can leave from here." She'd managed to surprise him, bloody well stun him, actually, as she'd made no previous mention of him accompanying her. He swiftly stood up, rounding his desk, to stand in front of her.

"Do they know? About us?" he inquired, waving a hand back and forth between them. She shrugged.

"I'm fairly sure Donald figured out something was going on between us when they were here for the conference a couple of years back, although he's never asked for details."

"Oh, what gives you that impression?" he asked, leaning against the side of the desk.

"He makes it a point to ask how you're doing whenever we talk. But, then, after your little display of jealousy and 'pumping him for information'," she gesticulated with her hand, "followed by that kiss in the living room..." she held up a hand, and let him fill in the blanks.

"And Frances?"

"Given she's not badgered me across the years, asking when I plan to tell Mother, when we plan to make things more... official, I'd say it's safe to believe Donald's kept his suspicions close to the vest." He nodded, slowly.

"Mmmm hmmm, Mmmm hmmm," he hummed. "And tomorrow night?"

"We'll let her draw her own conclusions." It was the best answer she had, given they'd still not labeled what, exactly, they were. Friends who happened to be lovers? An enjoyable, but temporary diversion? Something... lasting? How do you attach a label to something when you, yourself, have no idea what it is? Shaking off the thoughts, she handed him the file in her hand. "Now, about out meeting with Peter Jernigan..."

He returned to sit in his chair, listening closely enough to respond appropriately, but his thoughts otherwise occupied with ideas on how to still give her a birthday to remember.

* * *

Dinner with the Piper's had gone off without so much as a hiccup and Frances hadn't even seemed to question why Laura would bring her 'boss' as her guest to a birthday dinner in her honor. That had been a relief, as Laura was still not up to answering questions about them, not to mention as soon as Frances knew so would their mother. What still had her head swimming, however, as Remington and she walked up to the door of the loft, was her nieces and nephew's reaction to Remington and his to them. She'd known since little Caruso had passed through their lives that he had a natural affinity for children, but hadn't realized until tonight that he truly _enjoyed_ them. Her thoughts were still preoccupied by this revelation when she removed the padlock from her door and Remington reached in front of her to tug it open, then extended a hand indicating she should enter first.

She took two steps then stopped in her tracks to take in the room in front of her. With a shake of her head, she resumed entry into the living room, walking directly to the piano to finger the arrangement of yellow, white and red roses there. She spun around to take in the rest of the room, finding an identical arrangement on her secretary's desk, kitchen counter, end tables, the kitchen table, and a glance up to her room showed even more on the bedside table and dresser.

"What's all this?" she asked, clearly awed, watching with amusement as he flicked on the heater to the circus style popcorn cart, and filled the tub with oil and kernels. She joined him next to the machine, tapping her fingernails on the glass.

"A nod, perhaps, to the weekend that could have been," he answered, smiling when her eyes lit upon the second cart, parked in the small dining area.

"A cotton candy maker? You're going to make me cotton candy?" His grin widened when he stood and she stepped to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"That I am," he confirmed, his arms automatically encircling her waist. She pressed up on her toes and with her eyes still open, holding his, touched her lips to his. When she withdrew her lips, their eyes continued to hold for long seconds, before he bent his head down and settled his lips over hers, caressing them with gentle ardor. The sound of corn beginning to pop drew his attention and reminded him there was more to the night ahead. With no little reluctance, he ended the kiss, and with a couple of pats on her hip, stepped away. "Ah, yes, well, let's see to that cotton candy, eh?" he suggested, the thought that he seemed a bit scatterbrained lifting her lips.

"By all means," she agreed.

The cotton candy was made amid much laughter, although he seemed as skilled in its making as he was anything else that involved food preparation. _His days with the carny?_ she wondered to herself. Once he had a half dozen sticks made and a heaping bowl of popcorn sitting on the coffee table, he squatted down before her TV and slipped a VHS tape into the player. Her brows knitted together as she watched.

"Should I ask how your VCR ended up in my living room?" He glanced over his shoulder at her, lifting a brow in her direction.

"Need you ask?" She laughed and shook her head. _Monroe._

"I don't know why people even bother locking their doors. If I've learned anything at all from you and your friends over the years it's that where there's a will..."

"There's a way?" He flashed her a smile, then said a quick prayer all was functioning before sitting down next to her on the couch and pushing the play button. He'd recorded the movie while Laura was visiting her mother at Christmas, thinking she might enjoy it... and that it might come in handy should he find himself on her bad side. When the movie's name flashed on the screen, she sat up a bit straighter, smiling wide.

"A circus movie?"

" _The Big Circus,_ Victor Mature, Red Buttons, Vincent Price and Peter Lorre, Allied Artists, 1949. The owner of a circus in dire straits tries to keep the show on the road, despite the efforts otherwise by a murderous saboteur," he summarized. "It's by no means _Casablanca,_ but given it combines murder, mystery, mayhem and the circus, I imagine you'll find it enjoyable fare."

And she had. She'd laughed often, commenting on how the dancers in the parade were horribly out of sync and wondering what would possess _anyone_ to paint elephants orange, yellow, red and purple. Watching the big top burn had left her quiet, and the train derailment which killed several members of the troupe had made her gasp. Throughout it all, she pinched off fingers full of fairy floss, offering him bites, which he declined... although he gladly accepted the lips she offered up to him often, savoring the taste of the colorful confection and her combined. When the closing credits of the movie rolled, he was loathe to get up and leave her, but one last surprise still awaited.

He retrieved the box from the underside cabinets in her kitchen, where Monroe's man had stashed it according to direction. Carrying it into the living room, he placed the large, but deceptively light box, on her lap. He'd already had a gift for her that he'd intended to present on Sunday evening, had the weekend gone as plan, but it seemed fate had designed that gift be designated for another time and place, yet unknown. The inspiration for what sat before her now had come to him the prior morning. A well-placed call, not to mention a reminder of debt owed, and he'd had it in his hands last evening.

"For me?" Laura asked now, as she looked up at him, a smile upon her face.

"Unless someone else in this room has a birthday today, I should think so," he confirmed, as he sat back down next to her. She examined the box, picking it up and judging its weight, speculating as to what it might be. Across the years, his gifts to her had almost inevitably focused on the kitchen: cookware, bakeware, various utensils required for paring, slicing, crushing and pounding; a 'decent' set of wine glasses. A kettle, she finally decided, with a mental nod to herself. Countless times, since he'd begun spending nights at her place, he threatened to buy her a kettle in which a 'proper pot of tea might be brewed.' _Although it is a rather larger box_ , her mind chirped in for a final time.

Determined to preserve the large sheet of lovely paper enfolding the box, she patiently worked each piece of tape free, while Remington watched on with a bemused look upon his face. Finally, the fully intact piece of paper was placed on the coffee table and she tackled pulling back the tape securing the box. He imagined he'd treasure for a long time to come her quick inhale, and the glimmering eyes, wide with pleasure, that she lay upon him after seeing the box's content.

"But how? When I called, I was told it would take weeks, if not months, before they produced this color and style again." She lifted the Correa lamp almost reverently from the box.

"Ah, yes, but there happened to be an exact replica of the lamp on your desk in a certain San Diego office if you recall," he smiled.

"I hadn't even occurred to me," she admitted. Carefully sitting the lamp on the coffee table, she turned to him, and lay a hand against his cheek. "Thank you," she told him softly, brushing lips to cheek.

Reaching up, he lifted her hair over her shoulder, then cupped her neck, drawing her lips to his. His lips caressing hers, his elegant fingers stroking her neck, sent shocks across her body and goosebumps dancing along her skin, as pure, unadulterated need for the man coursed through her. She'd missed him this weekend, enough so that she'd chastised herself a time or two. But there it was. She'd missed making love to him, certainly, but even more so, had missed falling to sleep with him, waking next to him, the warmth of his body pressed against hers, their hands clasped, his soft breath against her neck, her ear. She'd missed watching him wake, those blue eyes seeming all the brighter first thing in the morning when he first opened them, his hair askew, and that look of simple happiness when he woke to find her next to him. She'd missed that first morning kiss, when he'd shift her hair off her shoulder, then lean down and touch his lips to hers.

"Stay," she half-requested, half-hoped aloud. Her brown eyes widened, as shocked as he by the unplanned invitation, but she let it stand.

"Under one condition," he answered, leaning in for another taste of her lips.

"Oh? And what might that be?" She brushed her lips to his again.

"That I've the same option on my birthday." The smile that lit her face was answer enough, but still she gave him the words.

"I think that can be arranged." He landed another quick kiss on her lips before standing and drawing her up by her hands. Smiling, she threaded her fingers through his hair, pressing his lips to hers when he leaned down again. Her laughter trickled through the room when he swung her up to his arms, before it was smothered by a searing kiss.

She'd wanted him hard and fast, her body aching for him, for release but he had other ideas in mind: a slow seduction in which the body was lathed with kisses, nips, the tip of a tongue trailing across it, as each part was revealed, piece-by-piece. When, at last, the final article of clothing had been tossed aside, and she still quivered from her second climax at his hands, she straddled his lap, taking him inside. A shuddering sigh passed her lips at finding him filling her, but when she began to move over him, hips gyrating, trying to race to that finish line, he'd grasped her hips in his hands and lifted her from him. A moan of both complaint and frustration bubbled up from her throat quelled only when he swung his legs over the side of the bed and drew her onto his lap where he had more access to her body, finessing and teasing another orgasm from her as she thrust against him. He rolled with her then, until she was beneath him, and he at last gave her what she'd been seeking, pumping hard and fast into her body until her legs wrapped tightly around his thighs and her body arched, and she cried out as her body shuddered. Only then did he bury himself fully within her, murmuring her name as he came apart inside of her.

After, she splayed partway over his body, the fingers of one hand tangling with his, while his other hand soothed her. Her last thought, before sleep stole her away, was the memory of how he'd spoken of them earlier as though eight months from now, they'd still be together. Perhaps, she smiled, he didn't see this as a fleeting moment after all.


End file.
